Look Into The Mirror
by xXNattatouilleXx
Summary: Look into the mirror and you'll be surprised at what you see. Even something you may not believe. MarcusxOliver
1. Chapter 1

**_Title: _**Look Into the Mirror (Part 1 of 3- other two written and ready to be posted)

**_Rating: _**T (or PG-13, for m/m situations and mild language)

**_Disclaimer:_** I am in no way affiliated, nor associated, with J.K Rowling or Bloomsbury Books. The characters depicted in this fiction belong to them, in no way do I claim ownership. This is strictly a non-profit piece, written only for entertainment purposes.

**_Summary:_** Look into the mirror and you'll be surprised at what you'll see. Even something you won't believe.

**_A/N: _**I wrote this a little while ago whilst on the writers hiatus; in which I couldn't get it to feel right. Now though, it seems to fit together. Feedback much loved.

_

* * *

Look in the mirror and look at me,_

_Tell me what secrets do you see?_

* * *

It's that mirror, that damned mirror that keeps reminding him of all his flaws. He hates coming back to look at it, look at himself, because what he sees leaves him walking away feeling angry and bitter. There are things there, reflected on the surface, that should not be seen by anyone.

But yet, despite his utter loathing for the place, he comes back night after night to stare at his reflection. It's not because he is vain and it's certainly not because he has nothing better to do (after all he could sleep); but because there's something about the reflection that leaves craving more.

The corridors were deserted at that hour; most of the students never dared to venture out past curfew. He could never fathom why they were afraid of Filch; he'd learnt not to care about some stupid squib. This was far too pressing to be stopped by a caretaker. Instead, he takes to the corridors at the dead of night, sticking close to the shadows and avoiding catching himself in the moonlight. He knows that, in that sort of illumination he is hideous.

He keeps a look out for the cat, the stupid feline that is the only thing smart enough to give his position away. He slinks down the corridors that have become far too familiar, imprinted on his mind, he's come this way too often. He slips past some of the portraits, fast asleep after too much firewhisky and he wonders whether that could be his solution, the end to all his problems. But he doubts he'd be able to play professional Quidditch if he were drunk all the time- though, if what everyone else says is true he won't be able to play looking like he does.

Ascending a flight of stairs quickly before they decide to change, he freezes as he sees Peeve's humming merrily up ahead; directly outside his destination. He looks back, wondering whether it's worth being caught, but knows the answer already. So he waits (and holds his breath) as Peeves cackles wildly, probably about his latest trick, before disappearing into the stonework of the castle walls. Immediately he sprints for the door, skidding to a halt outside his sanctum. He checks the corridor, already knowing it is empty, but it wouldn't do well to expose this to some snotty nosed first years.

As he grips the handle, he can already feel the flux of emotions taking him by storm. There's nervous excitement of what he'll see tonight, for it's never the same (he often catches himself contemplating what it'll show him). Then there are the painful beginnings of something akin to sorrow, though that's always quickly covered by his rage. He pushes the door open anyway, because he's been anticipating this right from his last trip.

The room's completely vacant apart from the mirror that stands pride of place in the centre, looking out of place in amongst the dust. He wonders whether it's fate that's lead him to it, but he always scoffs at the idea, yet some part of him still wants to believe it. He steps towards it, his outstretched hands run over the frame, his fingers rolling over the inscription with reverence- wondering who spent so much time labouring over it. He sends a silent thanks to whoever it was, but he has no desire to research about it, perhaps that would spoil the mystery of it. It was just one of the meaningless thoughts that always occurred to him right before he stares at his reflection.

For a moment (and it is these moments that hurt him the most) it is just the same old person staring back. The same frown-lines etched into his forehead, the same tombstone teeth and the same old resemblance to a troll that everyone sees. There's still the bulky frame, and the permanent presence that terrifies people before he even has the chance to speak; not that he'd have it any other way. He can feel the anger riling up inside of him, having to stare at the reflection he doesn't want to see, so he clenches his fists but restrains himself from smashing the glass.

But the reflection ripples for a moment, as if it is going to pull him inside, before another figure is reflected back. He knows who it is and it eases him slightly, because this is what he's come to see. This is the reason he comes back, not for himself, but for the other.

The other moves over with the grace (can he think grace and still be taken seriously?) that he possesses in the air and he's got an unmistakable swagger of confidence. He looks up at the other and can see the warmth and the mirth there, and he revels in it, because he wants to be the reason it's there. So he smiles slightly, because when he's in this sanctuary he can smile, and it's a perfect smile. Not a smile obscured by his crooked teeth that could make children whimper; but a smile that is straight and revered. The younger smiles back with such voltage that it's electrifying and sends chills down his spine.

An arm slips around his waist and pulls him closer; and it's so vivid that he's sure he can actually feel him and his skin prickles in anticipation. The other drops his head to his shoulder, or at least he does in the reflection, and it fits so well that he knows that they should go together.

He shudders from the mere thought.

He wants to haul him forwards, feel his frame beneath his fingers and kiss him until they both run short of breath. But he can't, because it's just a mirror and it can only bring so much satisfaction. So, he squeezes his eyes shut because he can't take anymore, and storms out of the room.

And the figure winks out of existence.

* * *

It's gone.

Fucking gone.

No where to be found and he's absolutely sure of it; he'd spent the whole of the previous two nights looking for it- and it's simply vanished from within the castle. He suspects some first year, probably that brat _**Potter**_, had stumbled upon it and completely exposed his secret to the rest of the world. He can no longer settle his thoughts by staring into the glass and watching as his dreams unfold. He's actually had to try and sleep without the scenarios to help content him.

He's not impressed with it.

He returns to the only thing that can comfort him now; hurtling Quaffles through the goalposts despite knowing it's Gryffindor training. Maybe it is his subconscious trying to reach out and touch the figure in the mirror. Or maybe it is because his needs far surpass those of the poxy team.

He can hear Oliver Wood protesting vehemently somewhere beneath him, yelling that he booked the pitch days ago, so what's the excuse for the intrusion of some grumpy ogre from Slytherin. He chooses to ignore him, ignore everyone; he's had enough of it and from now on he's not going to listen.

Instead, he just increases his assault on the goalposts because it's making him feel content; the sound of splintering wood had a tendency to do that for him.

"Are you bloody deaf?" The thick Scottish accent screeches, the Gryffindor Captain finally given up on shouting from below, and so now rests on the same plain that he does. He doesn't even need to look up to know that he's not impressed; he never did play well when others took up his Quidditch time. "I just told you to piss off, now."

He snarls in return, it would take to much energy and focus to respond. He settles on throwing another ball towards the goal, smirking to himself when it richocettes off the post and almost hits Oliver instead. He wishes his team had been there to see that, he'd be a hero if that had been just a little more to the left.

"Are you even listening to me?"

He doesn't even acknowledge the other speaking now because honestly, doesn't the younger boy get the hint he doesn't actually care? There's a reason he's out there and Wood, as thick as he is, doesn't understand that he wants to be left alone to work out his anger.

No, the other just hovers in place, trying to verbally assault him. Doesn't he realise that he is trying to work out his anger in more productive ways that pummelling him into the ground like they used to?

"Get off our pitch Flint."

He freezes in place when he realises that, a few inches from his face is the figure from the reflection, close enough to touch. He can feel the other's presence, and his face flushes.

"Don't you understand English?"

It's a venomous hiss, and it's dangerous; the whole situation is dangerous. He wants to grab hold of those robes and haul the other forward and finally feel what it is like to kiss a sworn enemy. He knows that it's wrong, oh-so-wrong, and Wood's looking at him with an expectation of some action; but the only action he can think about taking is kissing, and that isn't acceptable.

He's sure that the other is surprised when he abandons the pitch without another word; it's not his style. Really, he wanted to fight it out with the other, but how can he if his brain isn't working properly? No, he's got to retreat and figure it out before he does something irrational and stupid.

Damn that mirror. Damn it to hell and back.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Title:**_ Look Into The Mirror (Part 2 of 3)

**_A/N: _**Thanks for the reviews so far; as always con/crit is more than welcome.

_

* * *

_

_Look into the mirror and you'll be surprised at what you'll see;_

_It's not just your reflection that stares back at me._

* * *

Mrs. Norris hisses something chronic when they encounter one another in the corridor after hours. He curses his luck, ducking into the nearest room whilst the cat bounds down the hallways to alert her master. He really doesn't want to risk being caught past curfew; he's heard the horrors of all the punishments Filch loves to dish out and he doesn't want to risk getting one. Those sorts of detentions could interfere with practices, and he can't be dealing with them right now whilst trying to break in his new Seeker. He'd do anything (and he does mean anything) to avoid the possibility; that would include hiding out in the room until daybreak.

The plan had been to sneak out of the castle and head down to the pitch for some pre-dawn practicing. Apparently, Filch and his feline cohort had other ideas. Now he's reduced to hiding out in a room without the hope of feeling the midnight air rushing through his hair.

He presses his ear against the door, trying desperately to keep attuned to any approaching footsteps. He knows that it's a long shot, the doors are thick enough to block all noise in both directions; and for the first time he wishes they were thinner. If he could hear, he'd probably make a break for it, but alas his luck is pretty shoddy tonight.

He sighs heavily, giving up on the listening effort and turns his attention to barricading the door from any unwanted guests (Filch and McGonagall to name two). Sliding down onto the stone he begins to contemplate alternative ways of escaping the confines of the dorm in the midst of the night. He immediately rules out getting out through the window; Percy seems to be perfectly astute to anything rustling in the room and he'd easily awake to the sound of the wind. If he was given the choice, he'd face his head of house over an overbearing housemate any day. All the other options lead to similar outcomes and he realises that maybe this is the most successful, and least dangerous of the lot.

He's been restless recently; so much so that sleep has become a laborious task and he's getting towards the edge of insomnia. It's only Quidditch that's keeping him going through the exhaustion and only flying that's proving to calm him down. He turns the broom over in his hands, admiring the sleekness of the wood against his palms. That's the only thing that matters to him now, not the impending OWL's or anything else, because this is his future career and there's no need for reserves. He'd rather die than not play Quidditch professionally; and that's that.

He looks up and starts when he realises there's a mirror standing pride-of-place in the otherwise abandoned classroom; how could he miss _that_? He's never seen anything quite like it before, it's unusual (and that's by Hogwarts standards, which really says something) and at the same time it's magnificent. There's a shimmer of magic hanging around it like mist on a pre-dawn pitch, and it's radiating power that he can almost taste on his tongue.

He thinks to himself that Dumbledore's really out-done himself this time to turn up such an artefact. He knows that it's going to serve a purpose, maybe magical or maybe ornamental, somewhere in the grounds-- and he finds himself considering where it could be hung to show it in full glory.

He stares at his reflection for a while, as though contemplating how everyone else must see him. He looks awkward, as if his body hasn't quite figured out how he's meant to look yet. He's got the height of a Keeper, but he's not quite broad enough; still bordering on the skinny side. He thinks that maybe everyone else is right, that his hair is a touch too long and it's starting to curl at the end; and he doesn't have the air of terrifyingly masculine he wants.

He rubs his hands over his face upon realising that he's contemplating the world according to a mirror and that's never a good sign. He smacks his head against the wood of the door to rid himself of all those thoughts so he can focus on important things like Quidditch. Though his mind decides to settle upon how the chill of the stone is beginning to seep through his robes; and he shifts to try and get himself comfortable again because he has to spend the night there.

The reflection distorts for a moment, and that makes him jump again because mirrors aren't meant to do that and once it calms there's someone else reflected back with him. He turns to his right where the person should be, but there's nothing there-- he even passes his arm through to make sure. He looks back that the mirror though, and undoubtedly there's someone else in the reflection, even though there's no one there.

He scrambles to his feet, wondering whether Dumbledore knows what sort of mirror he's actually bought into the school. He approaches the surface with weary curiosity, which is why he finds himself reaching out and running a hand over the crystalline glass. He rubs vigorously over the other figure to see if it comes off in his hand-- but it doesn't come off. In fact, _it moves_.

When he looks closely though, or at least with less trepidation than before, he notices that he's changed too. He's still got all the features, and not the terrifying presence he thinks he needs; but he's wider and the perfect build to help him continue following his dream and god, that's a relief.

But it's less important about what he looks like, but much rather what the other figure is doing there. At first he thinks the mirror is deliberately trying to terrify him out of his wits, though when the figure moves even closer he doesn't care about _why_ it's there, he only cares about what it's doing.

The other struts over, with the gnarled smirk that terrifies many but sends shivers down his spine and he can't help but return it. He looks up and is locked in the battle of wills that always occurs and he swears there's a spark of connection there; and in this mirror there definitely is because the calloused palms grab his waist possessively just like he's always wanted them to.

He doesn't feel so agitated anymore, he actually feels at ease without even having to be in the air. He closes his eyes and leans back, willing himself to feel the lips against his, but then he realises that the other isn't there.

He's just leaning into thin air.

* * *

He managed to do it. He managed to evade the possibility of detentions with Filch; and he'd stayed in the room until he reckoned it was breakfast, and that showed dedication. Not that it was a trial to stay there, the mirror helped whittle the hours into nothingness; but it was not how he'd envisioned spending a night.

But now he didn't think it was such a bad thing to absorb himself in; that is to say if he could find it again.

Normally he had a pretty decent sense of direction; he used to be able to find his way home from a day of rambling and yet it was proving too much to find a room in a castle. He has to admit, he had no clue what room he'd dashed into in his blind panic. After all, at the time it had been more important to get away from the cat than make a note of the room, unfortunately he had no idea what he was going to discover.

It concerns him greatly when he bumps into Flint in one of the corridors, flinging doors open and cursing furiously. He wonders whether he knows about his guilty little secret and he can feel himself blushing at the mere thought, so he hides his head and scrambles past seeking cover in a group of Hufflepuff's who giggle furiously when they realise who is walking with them.

It's just not his luck anymore.

He needs to find the mirror again, because it proves to calm him just as much as flying and perhaps it would allow him to concentrate on school work for once. When he confides as much in Percy (without mentioning the magical properties, just saying that its' sheer craftsmanship works wonders) he finds himself with a search party through lunch…though five minutes into Transfiguration he regrets that decision.

He's beginning to think that Dumbledore's had it moved when four days of searching turn up nothing. When he's dragging his team down to the pitch for their training session, he has a particularly brutal session on his mind because he's got all this extra energy to work out. He's also got an intensive session for his Seeker because he's got the bad feeling that the mirror's relocation has something to do with him, as most things seem to these days.

Of course, he doesn't _really_ blame him.

Fred and George are busy telling some joke that apparently requires them to swing their bats wildly to emphasise the point; when he spots a figure already training on his pitch. Of course, as a matter of principle the rest of the team starts complaining despite the fact that this could prevent them training. Apparently a Slytherin hijacking the pitch is horrific no matter the circumstances.

"What the hell!" He shouts, though in reflection it's more like a hysteric shriek. "I booked the pitch weeks ago!"

"Can't you bloody well read? It's a Gryffindor training day."

Flint's deaf as well as illiterate, and he carries on oblivious. The Gryffindors look at him expectantly because of course the two Captains have a vendetta against one another so no one else is supposed to get involved. So he sighs and clambers onto his broom and flies towards the elder in a bid to get the pitch back for his training. For a few moments though, he finds himself watching the muscles flex beneath the elders robes as he fires Quaffles at the hoops. It's really little wonder why he gets bruises from the matches and he catches himself wondering just how strong Flint actually is.

"Are you bloody deaf? I just told you to piss off…now." Well, he didn't directly say that but it was implied and Flint should be listening to him, instead he seems more intent on damaging the goals.

Just at that moment, he lobs a Quaffle at such force that it ricochets off the post and his reflexes are just quick enough for him to dive out of the way to avoid getting hit.

"Watch what you're doing you stupid troll!" And yes, that one is slightly hysteric because he doesn't want to end up in the hospital wing before even getting some of the new plays out of the way.

"Are you even listening to me?" He asks incredulously, recognising the signs of a 'Flint-blank' and in return the Slytherin just half-heartedly grunts; he can feel his blood boiling already because he _**will not**_ be ignored.

He swoops closer, knowing that Flint can never resist swinging out when he's in arms reach. Then that way the pitch'll be clear and he can get his team practicing and they'll both get detentions which normally results in weeks of hostility between them, which he's got to admit is twisted, yet enjoyable.

"Get off our pitch Flint."

Flint freezes in place and does a double take when he realises just how close he is and he loves that he can rattle the elder. Though when he stops to think about it, being this close is really dangerous because he's looking directly into his eyes and searching for that connective spark like in the mirror, and he yearns to reach out and touch.

He seriously hopes it's not obvious how much he wants him at the moment.

"Don't you understand English?" He hisses before he can even stop himself, because he knows that it should send Flint off the deep end and diving towards him. It's unsettling really how close that hiss sounds to his attempts of seduction.

He readies himself for the reaction, the punch or the kick, but it never comes and that's worrying. He's more than unpleasantly surprised when Flint retires without a retort and he gets a free pitch like he wanted.

But why does he feel like he's missing something?


	3. Chapter 3

_Look into the mirror and tell me what you see;_

_Do you see the future that will become our destiny?_

* * *

Marcus can't fathom why he's still contemplating whether he looks presentable for the 'special occasion' mere hours after declaring that it is no more special than a normal Friday night; nor does he particularly care what he looks like in the eyes of others. It is perhaps a little ironic (and not to mention hypocritical) that he can't quite decide whether his shirt is the right shade of Slytherin green to show house affiliation rather than just coincidental colour matching.

He knows that to many people tonight is special; but it could never be that way for him. After all, they're all excited that they get to return to their home of seven years and see the people that shaped their lives, but it never bore that much significance for Marcus. The two most influential figures of his life were still standing by his side now, even though it had been five years, and he never really classed the castle as his home. His sole purpose of going really was because he was told to, and Higgs and Pucey are being forced to go too.

It reaches a point where they all had to admit defeat; but they've already agreed that they're sticking together as a pack of Slytherins. No way does he want to mingle with Gryffindors who thought he was a troglodyte back in the day; they can all piss right off.

He's got no doubt that it's going to be awkward for everyone, despite whatever spin Profess-- _Headmistress_ McGonagall tries to put on it. The invitation said something about 'celebrating the new era of Hogwarts'; but he suspects it's going to turn into a large scale Potter Party to celebrate his official graduation and victory and the reopening of Hogwarts is going to be pushed aside in favour for 'War-Talk'. Of course, that means sceptical and weary stares at all of the Slytherins and strained conversations of things that came to pass.

Come to think of it; why was he going again?

That's when he decides for the fourth time today that he's not going, and this time he means it. He doesn't want to go to a part where people are torn between staying away from the Diabolically Evil, Death Eater and going to get an autograph from Flint of Falmouth Falcons. Not even the opportunity to see some of his old Quidditch counterparts is actually worth that.

He tugs off the shirt and throws it haphazardly onto the floor, hoping it wrinkles even more for all the deliberation its' made him do, and pads off through the living-room and throwing himself down into his chair. Now this is his idea of a perfect evening, there's just one last touch to be summoned from the kitchen and when the bottle thunks into landing on the coffee-table his night is complete.

There's a faint, unsubtle cough from behind him and Marcus doesn't even need to turn around to know that he's getting a half-reproachful, half-admiring gaze from the other.

"Not that I don't appreciate the view, but aren't you supposed to be wearing a shirt?"

"Nope; s'my house I'll wear what I want." He declares, punctuating his point with a jab of the bottle. "And you're not going to stop me."

His partner laughs at that; because they both know that really he's telling the truth. Marcus knows he has the undeniable ability to get what he wants and not stopping until he gets it. After all, this whole thing they have is because he wouldn't take no for an answer and he sure as hell isn't going to start now.

"I wouldn't dream of it," he almost purrs before his voice returns to normal, "but we're supposed to be meeting Percy in ten minutes."

"I'm not going." He folds his arms and frowns, and that earns him a darker frown in return.

"Not this again!" He says, exasperated and his throws his arms up in defeat. "Look Marcus, I've told you how much I really, really want to go. Why can't you just come? Do it for me."

Marcus growls in return, because he hates the 'for me' card because it gets him every single time. Despite everyone else thinking he's an oaf, he really does have some tenderness that really only gets shown to his Gryffindor; and is it so wrong he wants to keep him happy?

"Fine."

He was in no way prepared for Oliver on his lap, his arms securely hooking around his waist as he grins like a maniac. Just seeing him like this is enough to evaporate his bad mood away…almost.

"But you better make this worth my while." He adds, just so it doesn't look like he's being too nice and sappy, and the ferocity in the kiss and the skittering touches he gets reassures him that they're both on the same page.

"I will," Oliver croons into his ear, his breath just ghosting the skin just-so that Marcus really doesn't want to wait until later to finish this. He moves forward to capture another kiss from his lover's lips, but the Gryffindor draws back at the last moment; "but first, you need a shirt."

"Fucking tease," Marcus growls, deciding to be just as cruel back, so he dumps an unsuspecting Oliver onto the floor, and almost bursts out laughing at the shocked expression he now wears; honestly had he expected to get away with a stunt like _that?_ "Now where did I put that shirt?"

* * *

Marcus knew it was going to be a case of house unity from the moment they arrived on the grounds to see most people colour coordinated. Oliver had wrinkled his nose and called it tacky; until Marcus had pointed out his burgundy shirt was hardly coincidental, and Oliver had stuck his tongue out and disappeared into the Great Hall and into the mass of Gryffindor red and crests.

And that left Marcus up to his own devices; which consisted of joining the leagues of black, green and silver that composed his old housemates.

Terrence and Adrian had found themselves a spot close to the refreshments; leaning against the wall and surveying the crowd and counting how many of them were wearing their badges and accolades on their chest as a if it were a measure of their importance. Marcus didn't object to the idea, as it was entertaining to see all of the previous Head Boys eyeing one another with disdain (Percy included) and having their Head Girls moaning about how childish they were.

Of course, there were a surprising number of people he recognised trying to mingle in with the Gryffindor crowd, apparently drawn towards Potter like moths towards a flame. And with that came the steady avoidance of the Slytherin's and the tentative stares he'd predicted of people undecided on whether 'stardom' won out over suspicion. Luckily, it hadn't yet.

"Looks like Wood's enjoying himself." Terrence says in that nonchalant way that Marcus knows all too well as Higgs's way of telling him something subtly. He scans the crowd for his counterpart and locates him just as a Hufflepuff giggles in a febrile manner and lays an arm around his neck in a not so platonic way.

He growls in the back of his throat, and that's a pretty dangerous sound because he doesn't like anyone moving onto what is rightfully _his_. What probably makes it worse is that Oliver either doesn't realise, or doesn't care- which thoroughly pisses him off because he knew this was a bad idea!

But Oliver looks up and gives him a slow and very deliberately alluring smile, his specialty look and Marcus snarls because the bastard is teasing him. Apparently he doesn't realise just how much that's going to cost him later. But with that Hufflepuff bint leaning in closer, he realises that she's unaware of the game going on and is actually trying to move in on his territory and that's not on.

He pushes off the wall and stalks over to his boyfriend in a predatory manner; ignoring Higgs and Pucey sniggering behind him because at least he has _someone_. Oliver seems to get the hint and grins one of his heart-stopping, gut-wrenching smiles and excuses himself from the gaggle of women and strides forwards to meet his lover half way.

"You're going to pay for that," Marcus snarls and perhaps it is a little more vicious than he intended but Oliver's eyes give him away because there's suppressed laughter there.

"Oh, really?" It's so innocent that bystanders wouldn't be able to read the subtext going on, but of course Marcus can because they've played this game plenty of times and it never gets boring. Then again they've never had quite this scale of an audience; but that doesn't distract from the main purpose.

"Yes," it's the simple answer that has Oliver following him out of the hall with the confident swagger that could be attributed to the cat that got the cream; and when he slams the door in his wake there's confused chatter from all the other graduates.

"What the _hell _Wood?" He snarls immediately asserting his position as the boss by grabbing him by the waist and pulling him closely. "I don't know how the hell you do it but damn it, you're good."

"Why thank you," he croons, leaning his head back against the elders shoulder basking in the success. "But honestly I can't take all the credit."

"Mhm," he replies, far too distracted with the demanding and ferocious battle of wills they've got going on in a kiss and Oliver moans in appreciation and that sound goes straight through him.

"Fuck Marcus," he says when they break apart and his eyes are dipping to that espresso colour that only means one thing. "I would've brought a 'puff home earlier if I knew about this."

He smiles at that; because he doesn't doubt that if Scot had bought a Hufflepuff home before the result would have been a lot more explosive and perhaps a little more productive. But they've got to draw the line at some point because they're in not only in public, but they're back at school and Marcus really doesn't want to tarnish the memories of the two of them fumbling through everything, with them now.

"We're missing the party," Marcus reminds him, loosening his hold and deciding it's his time to tease, because wasn't it Oliver who really wanted to come along? Oliver mumbles something under his breath, straightening himself up.

"Come on then, before they think we've killed one another."

"You go," Marcus says, shooing Oliver back inside, "your fans are waiting."

He laughs before slipping back into the hall, knowing that this'll be continued later if either of them has a say about it. He waits to make sure that Oliver is well and truly absorbed into the crowds before he turns back to the shadows where they were just lurking and smiles to himself as the candle-light flickers and catches the gilt frame that he'd recognise anywhere.

He retrieves his wand from his back pocket, whispering a quick _lumos _and sure enough it's the same mirror from all those years ago. It's the mirror that haunted him for weeks, months even, after it's disappearance and it's that expanse of glass that finally inspired him to do something after all the time spent not doing anything.

Funny that it turns up after all that time.

The reflection begins to ripple once more, distorting his image upon the surface before calming again like a pool after a rock has dipped beneath the plane. He holds his breath to see what new future it is predicting for him; because it's shown him the future before and it shouldn't fail now.

But once it has cleared, there's nothing extraordinary being reflected back. It's just him, Marcus Flint in the hallway of Hogwarts, and there's nothing different and he idly wonders whether time has worn away its' magic.

Then Oliver's head pops back from around the door, and he's trying to pull off abashed, but failing.

"Hey Marcus; the fans are asking after you."

"Fine," he huffs in a melodramatic manner and turns his back on the mirror, trying not to be disappointed that it's not shown him anything. "If you can't handle them by yourself, I guess I should help." And he slips inside without looking back.

But the reflection slips out a non-descript box from his pocket and grins to itself before winking out of existence.

_Fin_


End file.
